


A Change in Plans

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, John Whump, M/M, Protective Lestrade, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 23:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14532132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: Looking for information went very wrong.





	A Change in Plans

They’d been on the trail for almost three days, stopping only for an insisted upon nap or meal. Sherlock knew they were getting close, was nearly certain that the answers to this smuggling ring would be found in this warehouse.

John stood by the door, holding the torch while Sherlock rifled through the filing cabinet. Lestrade would want solid evidence, and Sherlock was certain they’d find it here.

Footsteps alerted them, almost too late. John doused the light, and they pressed against the walls. Sherlock watched the door, listening intently. The footsteps paused just outside.

The handle started to turn. Sherlock made eye contact with John, who gave a soldier’s nod.

John raised the torch and, as the man pushed the door open, cracked him over the head. The man staggered to the side. Sherlock charged at him, hoping it would give John enough time to get his gun out.

The man grappled with Sherlock and they crashed into the desk. 

John shoved Sherlock away from the man. They landed in a heap and Sherlock heard John grunt. The man hit a panic button and the warehouse lit up, a warning bell sounding from somewhere close. 

Sherlock got to his feet, all but dragging John along and sprinted down the catwalk, looking for somewhere to hide. There was the shout of voices and Sherlock jumped down onto some boxes, trusting John to follow behind him as he moved.

There. He squeezed between two crates and into the space behind them. They were trapped here, but with any luck, they could lay low long enough to formulate a plan.

Sherlock turned towards John as he stumbled to a seat on the floor, but the words died on his lips. The way John was holding his arm… John hissed as Sherlock scooted closer and moved his jacket aside.

“It’s going to need to come off,” John gritted out quietly.

Sherlock nodded and helped him pull the jacket off the other arm first, then his left.

“How bad?” asked John, looking at the blood that had seeped into the material

Sherlock moved to the side and looked at John’s back, taking in the wound still trickling blood. Sherlock had at least some experience with stabbings, having been the recipient of one or two when his reflexes hadn’t been quite quick enough. Biting his lip, Sherlock quietly tore John’s shirt further open so he could see better. “Bad,” he said quietly, pulling off his scarf free and trying ineffectually to stop the flow of blood.

John bit back a groan at the touch. “You’ll have to stitch it up, then. The kit’s in my pocket.”

Sherlock pulled John’s jacket closer. He found his hand shaking as he dug the kit out of the pocket. John had some time ago taken to carrying it, given the general danger they so often faced.

John reached out with his good hand and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, forcing him to meet his pain-dimmed gaze. “You can do this, Sherlock. I _need_ you to do this.”

Sherlock wet his lips and nodded, opening the kit. Loud voices passed near their hiding place. 

John reached out and pulled his gun free from the other pocket, holding it in his lap. “Get on with it,” he whispered.

Sherlock didn’t need to have exceptional skills to read the tension in John’s body, to see the way his hand clenched. He took a breath and threaded the needle. Right. Focus on the task at hand, trust that John could and would keep quiet. Trust that they’d stay hidden.

Best to move quickly and get it over with. He tore open a wipe and cleaned the area the best he could before getting to work.

The air went out of John’s lungs with a soft hiss, but he stayed still as he could. Sherlock worked quickly, knowing that once they got out of here a hospital could do a much better job. But John needed to make it to a hospital first.

There. Last stitch. Sherlock cut the thread. “It’s done,” he whispered in John’s ear.

John gave a tight nod, still staying still, eyes fixed on the entrance to their hiding place. Someone was stopped far too close and had called over someone else. Sherlock looked at John’s jacket. Had the blood dripped onto the floor in their haste? He looked around and quietly started to shift crates behind them, looking to make an exit.

“John,” he whispered.

Stirring from his reverie, John looked over and followed Sherlock’s lead, moving through the hole he’d made. Sherlock could hear the harshness of John’s breathing behind him. There was a shout and Sherlock knew they’d found the hiding place and the jacket. He broke free of the crates and darted into a hall, pressing against the wall.

John hollowed lead, his gun at the ready, though he was careful not to put pressure on his injury. Sherlock quickly scanned the area and moved down the hall, John still behind him. A fire exit. The alarms were still going off so no worries about it giving away their location. He shoved it open only to nearly knock over Greg Lestrade in the process.

“About time you showed up,” snapped Sherlock.

“You’re welcome,” said Greg, motioning the others forward. He started to say something else only to catch John as he stumbled and started to fall.

“He got stabbed,” said Sherlock, pocketing John’s gun before he dropped it.

Greg looked at the blood on his own hand. “I can see that. Sally! You’re in charge, I need to get them to the hospital.”

Sally nodded and stepped forward to give orders. Sherlock frowned as Greg got John into the back of his car. “It’ll be faster than waiting for an ambulance.”

Sherlock didn’t argue, simply got into the back seat, holding John on his lap and carding fingers through his hair, murmuring quietly. If Greg noticed he said nothing.

Almost as soon as they arrived, John was whisked away. Sherlock went to the waiting area and paced, only for Greg to appear and put a cup tea into his hand. Frowning, Sherlock looked at him. “Aren’t you going back to the scene?”

“They’ll call me if they need me,” said Greg, taking a seat.

Sherlock sipped the mediocre tea but found himself taking a seat next to Greg, as if the older man was solid ground in a world gone topsy-turvy. “John will be fine,” said Sherlock, though he wasn’t sure for whose benefit he spoke.

“I know,” said Greg, picking up a four-month old magazine and flipping through it while drinking his own tea.

Sherlock watched him for a few minutes, then pulled out his mobile, flipping through websites and not reading a word.

The doctor came out a short time later. “He’s resting,” he said. “But he’ll be fine.”

Sherlock got to his feet. “I need to see him.”

Seeing the determination in Sherlock’s eyes, the doctor gave him the room number. Greg stepped up to talk to the doc as Sherlock quickly walked away.

John looked small in the hospital bed, but he was awake and cracked a small smile. 

Sherlock hesitated, then went to his side and perched on the edge of the bed, reaching out and taking John’s hand.

John looked at their hands entwined. “Sherlock?”

“I was worried,” he said quietly, not sure how to articulate what he wanted to say. Sentiment had never been his strong suit.

John studied his face, then tugged him closer. Sherlock closed his eyes as John’s lips met his own. He sighed softly, the moment soft and perfect, despite the location.

There was a noise and Sherlock looked up just as Greg vanished from the doorway. He rolled his eyes and cupped John’s cheek. “They’re keeping you overnight?”

“As a precaution.”

“Then I’m staying right here.” Sherlock moved off the bed and into a chair.

John smiled softly and settled back in the bed, closing his eyes.

Sherlock took a breath, keeping watch through the night.

**

The next day saw them both back in Baker Street. John seemed to be moving with more caution than his injury would suggest. 

Sherlock cornered him in the kitchen when he was fidgeting with the towels. “John?”

John turned, back to the counter. “Yes?”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him. 

John stood stock still for a moment, then melted into his arms, kissing him back.

Sherlock held him close and gently guided him to his bedroom, getting him into bed and climbing in after him.

John sighed and tucked himself against Sherlock’s side. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“I am yours,” answered Sherlock, carding his fingers through John’s hair. John quickly fell asleep, but Sherlock stayed awake, listening to the sounds of London outside their flat. After a while though, his eyes closed as well. After all, this was where he belonged, entwined with John, safe in their home.

**Author's Note:**

> Because UrbanHymnal wanted John whump
> 
> You can find me on twitter and tumblr at merindab


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